Glassworks
by Lily-of-the-Valley22
Summary: Voldemort has won, and Harry Potter has fleed Britian. But all is not lost. A war effort is made by way of gathering intelligence from the corrupt Ministry itself. But as the fight increases in intensity, can Dean Thomas, Tamar Kysely, Severus Snape, Narcissa Malfoy and others manage to conquer themselves? Alternate Universe, OC's involved in story.
1. Epilogue: a Curious Incident

Neither sadness nor happiness have shown to be a constant state within the human psyche.  
Both mental states shift in the subconscious, as the waves have always done when the moon pulls and pushes the sea to become eb and flow.

Yet the feeling of control over this process has remained to be so fragile.  
Being overtaken by desires, and plunged into chaos to become stormy and troubled, is a familiar feeling for some.

All of Tamar's life, she felt very fervently that she knew who she was, and that she knew what she wanted to achieve. A cynic might have argued that in spite of set idea's, circumstances can befall anyone, and derail all plans.  
Her genius lied in her simplicity, where she based her needs on an elementary principle that could nearly always be satisfied; gathering knowledge.

From the time of Tamar's early childhood, the sensation of understanding information and processing calculations satisfied her immensely.  
A book, a text or even a single fact can open a door to a wholly undiscovered world, and even has the capability of leaving a changed consciousness.

A new piece of intelligence, a newspaper snippet or a simple comment in a conversation; trivial entities to those ignorant to their value. Yet to those interested, entities of unparalleled worth.

Forthwith she found herself in such a situation with a small, though significant conversation held within her earshot that would unbeknownst to her, change an uncountable amount of lives.

Truly, even presently, all the details remained crystal clear to her, as if she were listening to it again at this moment.

It was a night like any other. Charing Cross Road was illuminated with countless lights and colours, serving to dazzle the senses and overwhelm a mind set on wandering.  
Be that as it may, she has recalled no particular reason to walk along a different alley that evening; noise and crowds consistently aggravated Tamar. Yet on most work days, she chose the fastest route, which so happened to be Charing Cross Road. Not on this particular occasion, however, although the justification was lost to her.

In any event, she meandered down a dark, abandoned lane to shield herself from all the stimuli to find some solitude.  
The tranquil environment allowed Tamar to gather her thoughts, as much so that she failed to notice the two men having a frenzied argument outside a building that she couldn't quite manage to identify.

At once she was made aware of their presence, and uncharacteristically hid behind a parked auto; the men were consumed by the subject matter of their bout, and therefore remained occupied.  
Their voices, filled with passion and despair, echoed across the pavement.

'I shan't partake! This plan.. These idea's… They are beneath us!' The conviction in the speaker's voice was so powerful the air seemed to shatter.  
Despite of the loud sound of his words, it was the emotion in his tone and in his expression that gave him might.

Nevertheless, the reaction of his companion could not be described as more than tepid.  
'You dare question his orders?' He uttered with bored indifference. His lack of enthusiasm did not calm his accomplice in the least regardless.

'You dare not to? What will become of us if we continue this path?' Tinged with anguish, the first man persisted his case madly; leading Tamar to question his intent.

Finally, his words seemed to have some effect on his accomplice; who moved suddenly, nearly unexpectedly enough to startle her, to grab him by his bizarre attire, and haul him against the wall.

'You are truly the fool I thought you were, Macnair,' He gritted, angered, through his teeth, 'If you honestly believe you can stand up to the Dark Lord.' Correspondingly to his threatening inflection, a curtain of greasy back hair enclosed his face, and two small dark eyes peeked through, staring keenly with a glint of madness. Even to Tamar, it was positively terrifying.

Nevertheless, the man who was being threatened appeared unimpressed (Although Tamar could've sworn she heard his breath hitch ever so slightly). 'Don't jest, Snape.' A smile bearing a vile set of fangs marred his face. 'Your.. Transgressions were the talk of the town, when you were still licking his boots like the rest of us.' For a brief moment, the man paused. He seemed to be gathering his wits, if she observed correctly. Despite the cruel insult he had dealt to his fellow, the latter remained unchanged. It was almost as if he already knew what the other man (evidently named Macnair) was about to say.

'I know you are in bad faith, as am I.' As it was said, his revelation, was so unsurmountable in its value that it changed the atmosphere between the two of them completely. A tension that had tarnished their company prior had now vanished, leaving a harmonious feeling of understanding.

At a slow pace, the man named Snape released his ally, and withdrew with caution. 'We shall continue elsewhere.'

Finally, the spectacle had ended. Naturally, Tamar assumed this meant she could forget all about this, and could finish her day in peace. Yet the strangest scene unfolded. Snape moved forward suddenly, and grabbed Macnairs arm. Then an odd sensation drifted through the air, as both of them dissipated.

In the present day, Tamar learned a perfectly logical explanation for the physical impossibility that presented itself to her that night. In that very moment, however, she thought she was becoming delirious.

Replaying the events scene after scene, Tamar found her way home in a daze of bewilderment.  
There was no rational answer, she knew, for the bedlam she had witnessed a few moments before; but she was not exactly eager on checking herself into a mental hospital. Instead, Tamar recorded all the details of the situation that she remembered; if that had been the end of it, at the very least she could have peace knowing it was all over.

Regrettably, it was far from the end. Nay, it had just began.


	2. Chapter 1: All animals are equal

'Kysely!'  
'Sir?'

A balding, overweight man, stormed over to her small, rectangle shaped desk. Stacks of documents were in neatly placed bundles, and Tamar folded her ink-stained hands as she stared up at him, waiting for him to make his request.

His deplorable physical state caused him to be out of breath by the time he had reached her side; the hairs of his gray mustache brushed due to his fervent gaps. Most of all, he resembled an enraged hippo. As Tamar waited for him to compose himself, she let her eye glide over the framed newspaper articles, attached to the wall behind him.

Each one presented an enigma; although she had seen them everyday for several months, the work took up so much time she had only ever had the chance to read the headlines; Tamar knew the context, however, and because of this she knew them to be important.

Supposedly, they more most likely meant to intimidate the workers; to remind them that they had lost.

 _MINISTRY OVERRUN, FUDGE DEAD_

 _INCIDENT AT HOGWARTS, DUMBLEDORE SLAUGHTERED_

 _POTTER FLEES BRITAIN_

Perhaps the most insulting aspect of it all, Tamar mused, was the fact that there were no clippings from the Muggle-Wizard War. When the Kingdom of Great Britain had been threatened to lose all of its autonomy to a violent oppressor, (poetic justice to some she was sure) they had stopped short of nothing to prevent it. The shrill voice of the Prime Minister declaring they would fight to the last man was burned into Tamar's memory.

Yet, in spite of all of it, they had decided to only display newspaper excerpts from the Second Wizarding War. Most of the chosen pieces were inconsequential to the Muggles employed in the building; the significance was lost to them. The sentiment was more or less the same; 'Us' victor, 'Them' loser. Although the notion of a wizarding resistance was comforting.

It also made Tamar wonder, if the Second Wizarding War had been that much worse. Thousand of British soldiers had lied down their lives to fight the enemy, however, the horrors of the war the wizards had fought amongst themselves remained unknown to them. Surely the amount of casualties had been lower than the Muggle-Wizard War, but this meant relatively little considering Muggles outnumbered wizards about a hundred to one.

This logic served to explain behaviors she had seen wizards and witches exhibit; while she did not know any wizards or witches closely, the ones she did see on regular occasions were set on one of two emotions: anger or sadness.

For the man in front of her was a perfect example. Nearly everyday, from morning to night, his face was set in an expression of dissatisfaction; Tamar had never seen him smile. As to why, her speculations were endless, though she doubted she would ever truly understand.

'You've already finished your pile!' He pointed his fat, sausage-esque finger at her, in what seemed to be an accusation. 'I've told you before you need to _read_ the articles we supply you.'

A serious amount of self-control, is what it took for Tamar to not sigh, exasperated with the man's quarrels. Moreover, there was no sense in repeating this conversation again, she thought.

After having carefully considered her words as to not cause offense, she began her monologue. 'Sir, with all due respect,-'

In spite of her suspicions, he interrupted her. 'Try to follow instructions next time. In any case, our supervisor wants to see you after your scheduled working hours today.' Upon hearing this, Tamar was struck dumb. With what reason could she possibly entertain a meeting with a.. Superior? Granted, she was naught but a mere pencil pusher; how could her position be of enough significance to have a conference with a senior in charge of hundreds of labourers?

The man shifted away slowly, having left Tamar to recover from her shock. 'Sir, excuse me, sir!' She shrieked timorously.

Lethargic, the man turned around, to regard her with cool indifference. Unsurprisingly, he seemed disconnected from the fate of his employee. With a grim look, he tilted his head to regard her. 'Yes?'

His coolness unnerved Tamar. 'If I may ask, with what purpose will I meet with said superior?'

In hindsight, the expectation of a real answer had been futile. It stood to reason that the man had simply been following orders, and had no palpable idea of the larger scheme of the story. In any case, he solely shrugged and walked away.

As a new pile of articles magically appeared on Tamar's desk, she sorted them, one after the other, with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The man's instructions had been far from unjustified; after all, it was true that she did not read the articles. She, among a hundred other Muggles or so, was assigned a number of articles daily, to be categorized 'notable' or 'inconsequential'. When the explanation had been given what that was supposed to mean, it had been thrown on the 'Foreign Muggle Threat', provided Tamar remembered correctly. In Great Britain, Muggles had been unquestionably defeated, though unfortunately for the current government, abroad Muggle's were still keen and merry. In a second, regrettable choice, the present administration had very little knowledge of Muggle activity in general. They'd always flicked their wand and called it a day, without considering the possibility of a larger problem. Thus, they had needed Tamar and other Muggles to sort useful from useless, when it came to processing information.

In university, Tamar had minored in International relations. Therefore, there was no need to read the articles carefully, as she knew their contents very well. Nevertheless, it truly did not take a prodigy to sort the material. The banality of some of the snippets never failed to surprise her on given occasions. Who would, for example, be interested that some bloke in Stockholm had sunk his boat? Moreover, who in heaven's sacred name, would think that this could somehow be relevant to winning a global conflict? While Tamar loved to learn new facts, she had a feeling the wizards were grasping in the dark, without making any legitimate effort to decide on priorities.

How did they go about selecting the articles, she couldn't help but wonder.

Nevertheless, it was a safe assumption she'd most likely never discover it.

As the day neared it's end, she felt a fire light up her entire being. An inkling had settled itself in her consciousness; similarly she was excited, and she was frightened. Although she found her occupation to be satisfactory (notwithstanding, the fact that it was not nearly as pleasing as the one she'd held before), the structure of the new British society had all made them bow to the humdrum of normalcy. The appeal of the thrill of the unknown could not be denied. (In spite of the fact that, realistically, the meeting could also have something quite horrible in store for her…)

Upon the moment the clock struck six o'clock, her fellow compeers rose in quick succession, and consequently left the office. Unsure of how to proceed, Tamar stayed at her workstation. In a moment's notice, a dark-skinned man struck his head through the door, regarding her with an inquisitive expression. Stiffly, he slipped into the room, and cleared his throat.

'Tamar Kysely?' Still in a quite uncomfortable voice, he inquired towards the only person in the room. It was absolutely miraculous, she reflected, that a room that had hosted more than fifty people prior could be emptied out so fast.

Despite of her intense amusement of his evident awkwardness, Tamar decided to humor the poor man. 'Present, sir.'

Clearly not comforted, he scratched the back of his head. 'Right. If you'll follow me, please.'

The apparent decency of his manners surprised her. Surely, not all wizards were cold and uncaring, but she'd never heard one use the word 'please' in addressing her previously. Therefore, albeit she knew herself to be irrational, her hopes in regard to her apparent meeting brightened considerably.

The building was larger than she had expected, she considered as she followed the man. While it was true she, naturally, only saw a small part of it, she had considered its full size before, and it the interior did not seem to match the exterior in the slightest. 'Dreary dwelling in East London' was truly the most fitting description one could give. Even on a reasonable day, it most resembled an abandoned repository. Which it most likely had been, before it had been taken back into use. In any case, Tamar was reasonably certain it only had two floors or so, and they were now ascending the fourth staircase. Curious to test her theory, she decided to see how amiable this man was, by seeing if he was willing to answer a question.

'Pardon me, sir?'

Cautiously, he turned his head, from his position slightly above her, where he was standing.

'Yes?' The sudden initiation of contact seemed to have startled him; brusque, but not unfriendly, he turned his body to face Tamar.

'Well, if you don't resent my asking, it seems we have continued to move on to the fourth floor, yet it seems, from the outside, that this building only has two.'

In effect, the man smiled, whereafter an impish look remained on his profile. 'Right. What do you believe the explanation for this impossibility is?'

The answer was ostensibly clear. There was no question, as to how this was feasible.

'Magic.' A common word that held so much weight. Indeed, the enormity of this resolution was immeasurable. Logically, a mind could accept it, yet the details of the occurrence could hardly be grasped by a layman. How, say, would one go about extending said space, for example? To a common Muggle, the manners and techniques, were naught but a fata morgana.

'Correct.' Was his uncluttered response.

As brief as his answer was, as unsatisfied was she with it. 'Fine.. But how would it be.. Brought into existence, so to speak?'

She was surprised to find he considered a fulfilling response for a brief moment. While they trudged up the stairs, the only sound Tamar could hear were their footsteps, and her own shallow breathing. Markedly, the echo was an incredibly thundering sound. By the likes of it, the building must have had at least ten floors or so.

'Only a wizard, incredibly skilled in extension charms, would be able to create a vacuum such as this one. It's very important to understand the magical structure, and the reinforcements it needs. A commonly skilled wizard could manage a small extension charm on a bag, though nothing quite like this.'

'So I gather you do not know how to execute this sort of an.. extension..?' Fearing a bad reaction, Tamar carefully trodded the line of conversation.

A brash, though not unfulfilled smile made it's way upon the man's face. 'Afraid not, no. I believe the field of Mastery is Charms, however, it would require further study, even of an expert to manage.'

To think Magic was so vast there were several fields of expertise, boggled Tamars mind. It was not at all what children stories' had made it out to be. Conversely, the practical application of magic was surprisingly logical. Rather, the wizards with long white beards dressed in colourful robes did not seem to exist in this world, as far as Tamar had seen.

'Fascinating.'

That was the last word spoken between them, as they made their way closer to their destination. The mans conversation had managed to slightly quill Tamar's fear, Correspondingly, she became more enticed with each step.

Ultimately, after what had seemed like ages, the man headed into a corridor, with Tamar trailing close behind. It was entirely nondescript; grey walls and grey doors, reminiscent of a particularly wearisome government office. Which Tamar supposed it was.

At the very end of the corridor, the man, at last, moved to open a door. Inside was an office, not at all similar in appearance to the rest of the building. A very large window illuminated the four-walled chamber, Nevertheless, an enchanted chandelier hung from the ceiling. Paintings with moving figures illustrated, drew the eyes of all who entered. Most imposing of all, however, was the considerable red oak desk situated in the middle of the study; behind it, a figure was sitting on a hefty leather chair.

'You're late, Zabini.' The figure uttered without going through the trouble of facing them.

Nor the figure, nor Zabini were forthcoming or apologetic. 'Shall we begin then, sir?'

In reaction, the figure sighed, and turned his chair around. It took Tamar all her measure of self-control not to gasp; or have surprise show on her face. Before her sat the man named Macnair, a man whose company she'd been satisfied in never sharing again; truly his presence was a harbinger of adversity.

If her reaction had been cause for his suspicion, he had not shown it in the slightest. Instead, he motioned for the two of them to sit down in the chair. At the instant they were seated, Macnair folded his hands, and turned to stare at Tamar intensely.

'Tamar Kysely.' He spoke her name with a degree of ownership. 'Your overseer tells us you do not actively read the articles we provide for you to sort.' Abruptly, he stopped to gauge her reaction.

In contrast, she fought her own inner battle between disbelief, panic and cynicism. Had these two men sincerely dragged her to this office, to scold and threaten her for not following instructions? It felt ridiculous, even aberrant, to single out one Muggle for this sole purpose. Had they meant to make an example out of her, to subjugate the hoi polloi?

Or was it merely an intimidation technique?

The latter proved to be truthful. 'Nevertheless, when your conclusions were scrutinized by other Muggles, they all proved to be correct. How do you manage to sort the articles correctly, if you abstain from absorbing the subject matter?'

Indeed, the answer 'common sense' could not do at all. Although this amount or ignorance was difficult for Tamar to bear, she decided it was in her best interest to answer the man genuinely.

'While my scientific expertise is by large technological, I took courses in international diplomacy during my studies.' She prayed the man wouldn't inquire further; she did not know how long her patience would hold.

Macnair seemed aware of this information. 'Ah yes. That makes you the ideal candidate for our little.. Opening.' A beastly smile graced his features; truly, he was not a handsome creature. Evidently, he was finished playing his games, as he turned his attention to his colleague, clearly wanting the man to speak.

No love was lost between the two. Zabini gave the distinct impression he would rather swallow barbed wire than go along with Macnair's scheme.

'Should you accept, the two of us we will be working together on this project. My name is Absalom Zabini.' Noticeably, he continued his unforeseen act of civility, by offering his hand for her to shake.

Despite her lack of trust in the mens motives, she gladly accepted his hand. When she retreated back into her chair, she decided it was advisable to be realistic, albeit the groveling still having to be part of her demeanor. 'If I have a choice in the matter, I would like to know what the project entails.'

Although Macnair did not seem to be the in the type of mind to humor her, he gave her a brief explanation of the proceedings. 'In the present day, foreign Muggle assailants lurk at our coast.'

Briefly, Tamar felt a swell of pride.

'While they cannot travel beyond our wards, there is no telling what threat they could pose, once they receive wizarding assistance.' He momentarily paused to gather his thoughts. 'Due to the nature of our charms, and due to the risk the Muggle's pose, we cannot lower the wards, nor can we look beyond them by magical means. Be that as it may, it would be possible to achieve this with Muggle technology.'

'Oh?' Tamar inquired.

'Although more modern devices cannot function under the strain of magical interference, older Muggle equipment seems to be resistant to this problem.'

'It's most likely that it's caused by the reduced frequency.' She said in spite of herself. 'I suppose it would be possible to use an instrument, such as a radar, at a low frequency to diminish the chance of a breakdown.'

A silence swept over the present company, invigorated by the four blank pair of eyes staring at Tamar, that indicated a grave lack of comprehension. With a brief bout of hesitation, Tamar wondered if she should bother to explain the mechanics of this process to the two men, regardless, she suspected the intent would be lost on them.

Attempting to make a slight recovery, Macnair asked her a question. 'Could you set up said equipment, use it, and tell us exactly what danger lies in wait?'

'Exactly? No. By and large, I can say even without going to the coast that it's presumably submarines. It would be wisest, if the circumstances are agreeable, to measure the amount of electromagnetic waves on several days, during several intervals. If we were to gauge some type of routine, perhaps, at a certain moment, the wards could be let down in order to use a higher frequency, as to detect aircrafts and ships from a larger distance.'

As her response was met with more silence, Tamar wondered if she'd just betrayed her own kind. Although she knew that the two men in front of her could never effectively use the information she had just provided them, given she'd more or less agreed to help them, she'd be consorting with the enemy. Regardless, relatively speaking, if they knew this little of the opposition they planned on going to head with, their chances of winning were positively abysmal. One Muggle clarifying the basics of radio waves, was not going to help them best modern warfare.

'So you'll do it then?' Zabini replied bluntly.

Her preferable response would have been a noncommittal shrug, but she settled for a clear answer instead.

'Yes. I accept your proposition.'

Sitting opposite of her, Macnair still seemed to be recovering from temporary obfuscation. Nonetheless, he made a quick recovery to seize the opportunity.

'Most excellent. You will report to me after you've finished your assignment.'


	3. Chapter 2: The Puppetmaster

On a dismal street located in Edmonton, a dark hooded figure hastened past the ghastly terraced houses; in the distance, the crippling tower blocks loomed over the borough. A light drizzle pattered from the sky, it was dusk; yet the streets were coloured grey entirely.

The figure, in its heedlessness, tripped over debris receiving a cut on its leg in the process; it swore, though regardless paying no genuine mind to the pain. Driven by anger, it lumbered onwards to its destination.

It was angry indeed. Rather, it was displeased. Despite of the figures ire, it moved promptly and smoothly to its destination.

As it turned out to be, the completion of its voyage was a copper-bricked addled store front; in its high tide it had doubtlessly been a dodgy snack bar, one of London's many. Here and now, the building had a much more crucial function.

At once, the figure waved its wand and was granted access. The guise fell away and a plain black door was revealed. Upon the door's appearance, the figure entered. Inside the building was an unvarnished waiting room; as one would see at the doctors, perhaps. Beyond a counter, a woman with wavy blond hair was seated.

'Thomas.' She said by manner of greeting.

'Brown. Good evening.' Guiltily, he indulged briefly in taking in her demeanor. At Hogwarts, especially in her sixth year, she'd been one of the most vibrant luminaries, many a lad had chased after her, but she had always made her own path.

In the meantime, the conditions had changed. Similar to the rest of the former DA, the war had taken its toll on her. Dean knew she had been attacked numerous times during the Battle of Hogwarts, but above all, it had taken its toll on her mentally.

Her bubbliness had gone; she only spoke when required, or when spoken to. It was evident that she was only taking care of body at a basic level; her face was gaunt, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Be that as it may, the lack of sleep was in all likelihood caused by nightmares; a torment which Dean was also quite familiar with, regrettably.

'Our new cooperatives require us to use Polyjuice for each meeting, and comparatively also use false names. Both you and Macnair are familiar to them, so you won't need to, but you won't recognize the person in front of you.' Derived of emotion, she delivered her lines.

'So I'm the lucky bloke then?' A vague attempt at a joke, but an effort nonetheless.

An intense stare was her sole reply. 'They'll be waiting for you in the second room in the first corridor.' She sighed, seemingly to take a brief moment to collect herself. 'It's good to see you… You can go on now.' By the manner she squinted her face, and her inclination to look away after the fact, Dean understood the little amiability she had shown had been an undertaking for her, and knew not to press any further.

'And you too.' He said, before he turned and headed to meet the mysterious stranger.

Unsurprisingly, Lavender's words had been correct. The woman sat behind the table was entirely strange to him. The woman beholding him with dark eyes was most likely some unsuspecting Muggle, whose identity had been loaned for the occasion.

Spread about in front of her on the desk was a mishmash of paper. Before he moved to be seated, the woman waved her wand, and the papers reunified in an orderly fashion.

'Mister Thomas. Please elaborate on the fourth trial of the Muggle selection venture.'

The aberrant amount of formality the woman was addressing him with irritated Dean somewhat. Rationally, he knew collaborating with other resistance factions was a good idea, however, the secrecy involved made him feel less human. Should the situation have arisen, Dean would have gladly laid down his life for any former DA or Order member. The woman in front of him was disguised; chances were he would never find out who she was. The irony struck him as painful.

'Negative. The selected Muggle performed her task exemplary well, regardless, I have genuine doubt in her ability to function as an agent among wizards.'

Despite the woman's lack of emotion, Dean saw a brief expression of dismay flash across her features.

'Let it be said that Macnair reported otherwise.' She said solemnly. 'Be that as it may, he is known to have.. Questionable judgement. For what reason did you find her unsuited?'

Terse moments out of the past few days flashed before Dean's eyes. As he considered them, his arguments solidified in his mind.

The wind hauled against their backs, as the sea stormed angrily on the beaches below. Comparatively, the sky above seemed to be splitting open in an effort to swallow the earth whole, drowning it in rain and burning it in thunder. And the two of them along with it.

To ease the strain of the tempestuous weather, Dean had employed every spell in his arsenal to make her work easier, though it had unfortunately done painfully little for her temper.

'Right.' She'd mumbled. 'Nearly completed.' It was clear to the eye that she was in her element; sweat had the tiny black hairs glued to the frame of her face, as all her strength was extended to build the machine.

Notwithstanding his efforts to keep her warm, Dean felt his presence was entirely futile; for nearly hours on end, she'd worked, and all he'd been able to do was cast a few warming charms. Hoping to be useful, he made a suggestion. 'Shall I turn on the power then?'

A wild look appeared in her eyes. 'NO! No! Do not touch anything!' She screeched.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Dean sighed and conceded. 'Very well.'

In retrospect, the image which had stuck in his mind insistently, was the uncontrolled expression that had appeared on her face after his comment about turning the electricity on. The flash of emotion, concise though it may have been, was a definitive indication to the nature of her character. It had been fear, mixed with anger and uncertainty. In effect, Dean wondered if Tamar was capable of maintaining composure in front of the increasingly repulsive vermin Voldemort's mob had to offer. Doubtful at best, given the effort it took to collaborate with a single individual for the sake of finishing one assignment.

'She has a weak grasp on her emotions. Both in her body language, and her speech, it can be seen plainly by anyone that she is as tightly wound as a coil. In our interactions, as far as I can tell, she practically oozed stress.'

By a common eye, it might have been missed, however, Dean saw the attitude of the woman shift. Rather than pretending to be cold or indifferent, she changed and payed him her honest consideration. In order to let the words stir, she remained silent for a slight while before she replied.

'Would you say she was afraid?'

Dean nodded his head in acknowledgement. 'Very much so, I believe. Not only did she fear me, she also had little faith in her ability to complete the assignment, in spite of the fact that she in reality had no difficulty.'

In response, the woman sighed and looked troubled. Conversely, Dean felt relieved; she took to his advice, which was detrimental to the success of the mission in general.

'Should your observations turn out to be correct, we are obliged to reconsider. The position we are screening for requires by and large a large intelligence of Muggle matter, regardless, the selected candidate must be capable of standing among wizards.' The verdict came in a displeased tone, nevertheless, the message was indisputable to Dean; they'd reasses.

The woman looked at the table sourly, seemingly attempting to burn a hole in it with her eyes. Clearly, this signified the end of their meeting.

'As soon as a decision is reached, we will reconvene. In the interim, you may set the Muggle on more assignments, and observe how she copes.'

Her last statement left Dean somewhat flabbergasted. 'More assignments? What sort of assignments?'

Finally, an impish smile graced her features. 'Utilize your imagination. As luck would have it, we received full clearance from M.o.M., so by all means, do as you wish.'

It truly took all of Dean's self-control not to fall out of his chair. ' _Full clearance_? And what exactly does that encompass?'

'Full clearance means permission to do whatever it is that your mind can conjure, granted you can provide the M.o.M. with a neat little report that explains your motivations. Use it well.' After a short pause, she continued. 'The organization also expects reports of your progress with the Muggle. You are dismissed, until further notice, resume on your current path.'

His anger now having substantially subsided, Dean politely thanked the woman for her time and made his way out of the building. Prior to leaving, Lavender gave him a wistful smile and tentatively wished him a good day. Despite of her stony exterior, Dean had a slight suspicion she was trying to warm up to him, although it evidently took a lot of effort on her end.

Ordinarily, he would've walked to the Apparition zone without deviating from the route, however, his feet wandered. He still needed to process the conversation he'd had with his superior. While he was not dissatisfied with the outcome, the verdict was of course a double-edged sword. By a happy chance, they were not going to throw a frightened, unprepared Muggle to the wolves. On the other end, there was a substantial chance that the Muggle still might be selected, and the responsibility of supplying the moguls with advice rested on his shoulders.

Truthfully, Dean loathed the nature of the assignment; thousands of Muggles had found their demises during the war, and employing yet another to do their dirty work left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Regardless of the fact that the thankless task was to be done for the sake of the resistance, the risks the Muggle in question was taking were insurmountable. Chances of survival were abysmal; and the job itself would most likely be hell to complete.

Henceforth, Dean swore to himself he would try to protect this person, whoever they might be. Countless lives had already been lost. It would not do to be responsible for another one.


	4. Chapter 3: Familiarity

Shyly, beginning rays of sunshine danced on the wall, peeking through the translucent jalousies hung before the window; they did a moderate job of keeping the light out of Tamar's room, though the performance in the morning really did leave things to be desired.

Consequently, a vague remembrance sprung to forefront of her mind; she'd been planning to purchase new curtains at a lifestyle-store somewhere in Camden. As she sat up, she could not keep from snorting in disdain at her previous self; such luxuries as purchasing new household properties were now largely forfeit; without question, it would have been infinitely desirable if she'd been more focused on acquiring a surplus of books before the war.

Alas, she'd had no such insight about books or curtains, and thus every early morning was spent re-reading old favorites. It often astonished Tamar, how much comfort they gave; after all her life had not changed that significantly, post and pre war.

Her job had been considerably more enjoyable; for years, she'd worked as much as her body and spirit had allowed her to in order to achieve the goal of great success as a scientist.

Upon reflection, she was now in a comparatively similar situation; Tamar had performed her tasks with model excellence, and was thus accelerating her career. Magic frightened her, yet it also fascinated her; chances to be around those who wielded it were a gift.

Doubtlessly, the different circumstances served to scare her as well, but she'd always had a 'reserved temper', as her father had so lovingly called it. In truth, she did not consider 'reserved' to be the correct word; some humans were so unpredictable that interaction with them was wholly stressful. Logically, it was favorable to avoid those types of personalities. Thus, reserved was not correct.

After the necessary evils of showers and breakfast, and the joy of reading, Tamar readied herself for a stroll to the salt mines. At this instant, an urgent knock was heard at the door. Now, Tamar lived in Central London, St. George's Gardens, opposite of Hyde Park. At nearly all the other imaginable instances, a visitor at the current period of the day was nor odd, nor did it raise any type of alarm. Be that as it may, in the current situation the only logical response was; 'however might it be'?

Hoping the wand-waving devils didn't have it in for her, Tamar steeled herself and opened the door, being greeted by no-one other than a solemn looking Absalom Zabini.

'Good day?' She said by manner of a greeting, the question already formed in her body language. 'I was unaware I was receiving an escort this morning?' As an emphasis she frowned.

'Ah well, allow me to explain.' He began. 'We want to write an informative report about Muggle uses of radiation that will enable us to.. Reach a greater understanding, if you will.'

Evidently, he assumed the reason he was standing at her door had then been explained. 'I see, that's all unambiguous. What are your plans with me as of the present?'

Zabini gave her a look which sharply reminded her of the expression her nursery school teacher had given her on many occasions, when she'd asked one of 'those' questions.

'We are traveling to an abandoned library, where you will be able to do extensive research.'

Tamar's heart leapt in her chest. Inwardly, she cursed her earlier musings revolving waking up earlier than necessary, and silently thanked the broom-traveled individual who had decided the assignment was in order.

'Excellent! We shall leave at once.' Promptly, Tamar stepped outside and locked her door, leaving Zabini somewhat nonplussed.

Managing to regain his composure, he took the lead. 'Good. I assume you remember the Portkey we traveled with last time?' Surely, in Tamar's eyes, this was a rhetorical question.

'I confess I found it very unpleasant.' She ground out. 'Regardless, sacrifices must be made. Where is the device?' Eagerness dominated her being, wanting nothing more than getting her hands on the much cherished and sorely missed research articles and books.

'I meant to tell you we will not be traveling by Portkey, in any case, the sensation is akin to Portkey travel. If you'll take my arm, I'll be 'apparating' us to our destination.' Gracefully, Zabini extended his arm, and quick on the draw, Tamar snatched it impatiently.

'All booted and spurred?' He inquired. Barely given a moment to finish his words, she nodded zealously, in the saddle as it were.

A foreign force pulled Tamar to all directions at once, most strongly, she felt that an unseen string had dragged her upwards; nevertheless, the sensation had left as soon as it has came. In a moment's notice, they were standing in front of the abandoned Imperial College of London.

Before she could halt it, a dry laugh escaped Tamar's throat. 'Why, we ought not have bothered to use transportation! The apparition was a mere thirty minute walk from my home.'

Satisfyingly eyeing her alma mater, a warm smile defrosted her face.

Zabini coughed in an uncharacteristically awkward manner. 'My apologies.. I don't know London all that well. I knew the addresses, but not their exact location.'

Comparatively, Tamar was in an atypical good mood. 'No matter, it's of no significance. Let's set about it!' With the confidence of a person walking into their own home, she walked up the steps and entered the building. Zabini lagged behind, and followed her to the library.

A wave of nostalgia hit Tamar as she gazed upon the bookshelves she had spent so much time browsing. The feeling of familiarity almost overwhelmed her, as she realized how much joy being able to return had brought her.

'Er..' Zabini started with eloquence. 'There's a typewriter set up on one of the back tables. Please, feel free to write about whatever it is you find essential, as long as we are able to understand it.'

She nodded. 'Affirmative. In that case, it would be sensible to explain some of the basics… Shall I get to work then?'

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Tamar trodded off towards a bookshelf at the corner of the room, greedy to possess all the knowledge that the library held in its grasp. Once again, Zabini trudged after her in slight confusion. The sight of Tamar seated at the long working table, engrossed in the subject matter before her, left him more than a little stunned.

'… It was a world of contrast. She was helpful, cooperative, and dare I say it, sociable. For illustration; during the assignment in Dover, she was constantly muttering to herself and snapping at met when I offered to help. Truthfully, I was under the impression she was severely emotionally irrational. Yesterday, I saw nix, nor ereyesterday, nor the day before.'

Consequently, due to the figurative fall-out of the past two assignments which Dean had concocted, his opinion had radically changed, which had left them all quite confused as to what the proper course of action was. As a result, he was once again in Edmonton, sitting in front of a different looking woman with the same voice.

'Perhaps the problem is an unfamiliar environment or task? If the Muggle is well educated as you say, writing an essay should be a known undertaking. Setting up machinery is another hinder entirely.'

While her hypothesis sounded perfectly logical to Dean, he still felt as if a piece of the puzzle were somehow missing. In his encounters with Tamar, she'd always been composed and overly formal, which he'd connected with a lack of charisma and fear. Markedly, he'd missed a certain amount of sincerity; it felt as if all his words went through a filter in her mind, before she'd give a proper response. Be that as it may, perchance this was a good trait, considering the colleagues she'd soon be working with, if everything went according to plan.

Yet to lose her emotions around a wizard such as Yaxley would not do at all..

'In which case, we need to figure out which tasks or environments are familiar, in order to deem her suited or not.' The woman concluded.

'So it would seem.' Dean considered how voicing his concerns would no doubt damage his image in this woman's mind; she seemed calculating and business-oriented, the type of person whom would no doubt be less receptive to a saccharine story of solicitude.

Steeling himself for what would doubtlessly become a tiring discussion, Dean took a deep breath. 'Regardless of the suitability she has displayed in the past few days, I still believe her the wrong person for the position. I do not retract my previous statements, furthermore, it is my belief that if she does become involved in our operations, she will at one point break down.'

Upon receiving his words, the woman regarded him with a face as hard as steel, and as tight as a wall. 'Well Mr. Thomas, regardless of your opinions, the final decision is _not_ up to you.'

Showing a mere hint of defiance, Dean quirked his eyebrow. 'As I am well aware.'

Expectedly, her expression did not thaw. 'You'd do well to remember it.' Truly, only a clod would miss such a thinly-veiled threat, Dean thought disdainfully. 'Do not administer any further assignments until we contact you.' She finished icily. 'You are dismissed.'

Dean was seething, nevertheless, he politely shook the woman's hand and exited the building with a calm exterior. From the beginning, he had sworn never to play their games.

Light from the dying sun in the far of distance, hit her glass filled with fire-whiskey coily. It made its way through the large French double paned windows; a black curtain was luxuriously draped around it. In a past equally as inaccessible as the fleeing light, her sister had thought her they were hung in that manner with the purpose of spying. Small children, such as herself at the time, could hide behind said curtain, overhearing conversations adults would rather they not be privy to. In reflection, the mock innocence had perished, thereupon, she was now the adult having said discourse. For better or worse, her sister was no longer involved. The irony of this predicament was not lost on her.

'It went about as well as it was expected to go. He, as all Gryffindors do when involved in whatever situation, felt the need to express his unsolicited opinion, which of course holds little to no logical ground. Hence, because Macnair is such a soft-brained moron, we are entirely dependent on his flights of fancy when it comes to reliable information. This is the fourth time we have done this dance, wasting precious resources and favours as we go.' The scowl that came along with the sentiment beautifully accented her face, according to Severus, at least.

Silently amused by her displeasure, he softly blew air out of his nose, and considered her conclusions for a moment.

'The importance of this prospect outweighs any favours we've called in or resources we've wasted. Lack of patience and loss of loyalty will be our downfall.' For a brief instant, he embodied Professor Snape, teaching an obstinate student the fundamentals of his craft, fortune had it there were no cauldrons involved.

His reward was yet another irritated snarl, which looked no less elegant than the one before. However, before long, she dropped her expression and pinched the bridge of her nose. 'I swear to Merlin, this assignment will be the death of me.' With a sigh, Severus arose from the chair in which he was seated, and moved to stand beside her, in front of the window.

'Perseverance is key, and it will see us through in the end. Then you can wreck your vengeance.' Silky and smooth, he had his say to soothe her more unpredictable urges. The quaver of his voice echoed down to her bones, and she could not stop herself from sliding into his arms.

'My, Severus.' She whispered into his rib cage. 'I suddenly seem to recall your angelic humility as a professor..' A giggle erupted from her mouth, but was stilled as he kissed her.

Accordingly, her knees buckled and he wrapped his arm around her waist to support her. All too soon, before she truly relished his closeness, he pulled away. 'For you own sake, focus woman! There's work to be done.' he growled.

An impish smile made its way across her features, as she inclined her head. 'By all means, darling. Did you have any luck acquiring the Muggle's documents?' In response, he frowned at her, clearly wanting to reply to the bold use of the term of endearment, but choosing not to.

'Unfortunately not. According to my source, many documents were destroyed post or pre war. Especially those of Muggles who currently hold higher positions. Essentially, we won't be able to retrieve any known files by breaking into neglected archives.'

Aggravated, she sighed, and rubbed her temples. Alarmingly, he had noticed an increase of stress-indicating gestures she seemed to display. It took him back to a period of time he'd rather not reminisce about.

'Well.' Her expression changed to one of disgust. 'Indubitably, I can get said intelligence from my worthless husband.' The crude language she used to describe a man she once loved, no longer served to rattle him. Not after all the terrible losses that had come to pass.

Momentarily, not to draw it any further attention, his eye flickered to a picture of a young toddler with pale blond hair, and an even paler face. The only indication of color was the red that adorned his cheeks and nose. With a bitter hint of nostalgia, Severus recalled how unencumbered Draco had once been, surrounded by nothing more than his mother's love.

In the present day, Draco was surrounded by earth and grime, lying in a coffin buried six feet beneath the earth's crust. His body had been laid to rest in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, located in the 20th arrondissement of Paris. One of many victims, Draco had died fighting during the Battle of Hogwarts. However, not for the Dark Lord, no, for Potter. Therefore, Draco had been renounced as a traitor. Nevertheless Narcissa had howled as if her heart had been ripped out of her upon seeing the sight of her lifeless son. In light of his treachery, he had not been allowed a place in the Malfoy family tomb. A last, tiny little betrayal from her husband, but nonetheless the straw that broke the camel's back.

Narcissa was five years older than Severus, so they had spent close to no time together at Hogwarts. Be that as it may, Severus had not been blind. All three of the Black sisters had been incredibly popular, and all practised the blatant opportunism Slytherin was famous for. In spite of all blood-purity politics that came with being envied in Slytherin, Severus knew that losing their sister had been a monumental blow for Narcissa and Bellatrix alike. The close bond they'd once shared had perished, and she'd found love again when she'd started a family. He himself had never had children, and Merlin knew he did not consider the snot-nosed juveniles he'd been forced to teach as his own, forthwith he knew nothing of the pain of losing a child.

In contrast, seeing Narcissa grieve had given him the distinct impression it was an abyss of anguish.

An agony harrowing enough to bring about a complete change. Gone was the obedient wife, and from the ashes, an angry, hellishly determined revolutionary fighter had risen. Fixated on getting retribution for her deceased son, no task was too trying to complete to see justice done.

'If you're confident, so I shall I be. Leaving aside probability, confidence seems enough for you to get the job done.' Despite the fact that she was still a vision at forty-four, she also had a tongue as sharp as a glaive and a mind as clear as a river. In no universe was Narcissa an unattractive woman, nor a foolish one.

A mischievous smirk was once again his reward. 'If we all were to depend on your determination, we'd never go further than the planning stages.' She said without a hint of hostility in her voice.

By the same token, Severus grunted in agreement. 'There are undertakings that require no planning..' He embraced her again, and caressed the small of her back. 'Let us carry on where we left off..' He was most pleased when his whisper caused her to shiver.


	5. Chapter 4: Go Your Own Way

The creation of life, and the process of giving birth, were a fundamental magic which every woman knew, her mother had always thought her. Whether every woman was capable of being a mother, Narcissa contemplated, was up for debate.

Regardless, she understood her mother's' sentiments.

Where there were humans, there was magic; even life created in shame, or children conceived purely by accident were gifted with magic. It was one of the unwritten truths of existence.

Such as a horse and a carriage, love coexisted with magic. Life in itself was a powerful magic, however, in combination with love, it created formidable bonds that bound people together, constructed communities, and could even halt Death in its path.  
Thus her mother had been thought that the creation of life was purely instinct, buried deep in the mind of every individual.

On the contrary, on the other end of the spectrum, there was Death. Death destroyed. Death severed. Death was nothingness.  
It was not, as her mother had also said, a 'natural part of life'.  
The cessation of being left behind an unbearable chasm and in effect was only a tragedy.

A breach damn near impossible to coalesce.

Lucius and Narcissa had forged a strong union of love with the creation of Draco; he had been born as a result of their joined love magic.  
In like manner, his Death had destroyed this bond, and had damaged their merged magic beyond repair.

Or their relationship, Narcissa supposed, for the more rational mind. Notwithstanding, Officially, they were still married; the letter of law bound them together in union. The reality, as it so often happened to be, was harsher.

Their sense of closeness was a pale ghost of what it once was.

Narcissa knew this notion scared Lucius, in spite of the fact that their marriage was over, he held on to it, for his life had fallen to shambles around him. Yet, he did nothing. He was as passive as a wall.

Narcissa, for one, did not respect his choice, but nevertheless left him to it. They had chosen their own paths. Even if he did not realize what hers entailed, he knew he had lost her. And he had done nothing. No, indeed, she had now become the person that worked for a future, which made them fundamentally different.

However, on moments such as these, as Narcissa waited outside his office, she thoroughly had to remind herself of her objective.

Courtesy of Severus, all of their assignments were meticulously planned to the smallest detail. A rough draft wouldn't do, leaving anything to chance was tempting fate under their current regime. Thus there was truly zilt to dread, because everything was worked out to the letter.

This did not stop her from fearing the plan would go astray; it was in her nature. Consequently, she nervously twiddeld her thumbs before she knocked softly on the door. At its own accord, it swung open to reveal Lucius seated calmly behind his escritoire. As his eyes met hers, an easy smile arose on his features. Narcissa felt an undeniable stab of guilt.

'Darling, please, have a seat.' He gestured toward the elaborate jade suede chesterfield.

From time to time, as she sat, Narcissa swept her eyes across his office. Notably, It resembled the Manor to a fault. In spirit, it represented his own home. The office was not unfamiliar to Narcissa, nor was it the first time she was visiting. However, he had changed the interior a great deal since her last social call. Before she had time to evaluate this curious change, an order called Lucius away, all according to plan.

The moment the lock of the door clicked, Narcissa rose instantly. Remembering Occam's Razor, she tried the first idea that came to mind.

' _Accio Tamar Kysley's file!_ '

Certainly and surely, a compartment of a cabinet flew open, and out came the document. Eagerly, she snatched it of the air, and made a copy with her wand. She shrunk the copy, and put in a secret pocket of her coat. All motions done as swift as her ability would allow her, she returned the original to its rest, and plopped back on her seat. Not a second too late, as Lucius returned to the office a mere moment later.

Graciously, he offered her his arm. 'Shall we proceed to the luncheonette?' With the decorum of an empress, Narcissa rose and moved to his side. She gazed at him through her eyelashes, as they departed from the ministry. His composure was incredibly stiff; he was clearly not at ease.

Upon reaching Diagon Alley after using the Floo, some of the tension left him; leaving Narcissa to draw the conclusion his profession was at fault.

Strolling through Diagon Alley with him, brought back memories of brighter times. Most especially when they passed Quality Quidditch Supplies; a wave of pictures went through Narcissa.

 _Two hands and a nose left marks on the glass, and breath fogged the window._ _Moreover, it was the heart of winter, and they were red from the cold._ _Not the snow, nor the chill could draw the little boy staring through the window away._

 _Shining with excitement and anticipation, his eyes were utterly fixated on the item before him._

' _Draco!' Narcissa used the strictest voice she had in her arsenal. 'We shall go at once!'_

' _But muum!' He wined and pouted. 'This is the newest model! A Nimbus 1999!'_

 _The idea of Draco wheezing around on a broomstick completely terrified Narcissa._ _She much prefered the safe toy-broom he'd had, which insured he'd never hover more than a metre above ground._

' _Now, you are much too small to fly on such a big broom._ _Nevertheless, if you finish all of your meals, you might grow big enough to keep one..'_

 _In response, Draco looked at her as if she had bestowed sage advice upon him,_ _and his eyes had a glint of mischief that foretold trouble._

By the time the memory had played out in her mind, a bitter laugh had escaped her. Once upon a time, she'd found these argument with Draco, when he was but a boy, incredibly tiring. In the present, however, she'd give the world to be able to do it again. Robes, brooms, even girls, she'd tackle them all.

'Do you remember, Lucius?' she began. 'The holidays of 1989..' Evidently, her words had startled him, since he snapped his head to hers with a look full of panic.

'Please refrain from mentioning him here.'

It was all too glaring who 'he' was. So frightened was he, that he would discuss his own son in a manner alike the Dark Lord. Narcissa loathed to know it.

Within moments of pregnant silence, they had arrived at their destination. After their advent, they were greeted by a stony-faced footman, who lead them to a backroom. At the instant they sat, Lucius waved his wand, to wordlessly install several silencing and notice-me-not charms. Consequently, Narcissa fought her urges to refrain from rolling her eyes; he was incredibly paranoid, for no sound reason.

'To answer the question you asked prior, yes, I do remember.' He offered her a watery smile.

With a sigh, Narcissa leaned on her elbow and recalled the scene that had transpired during Christmas day. Finally, after pleading and begging for days on end had thrown their household into pure unadulterated pandemonium, Draco had received his broom.

The unswept joy on his face was a look she would never forget.

After Lucius had gone to Azkaban, he'd never shown it to her again.

'But we must not dwell on the past. We both know how dangerous it can be. Try to forget Narcissa, you'll be better for it.' And, spontaneously, the feeling of disgust had returned. For the remainder of the meal, Lucius droned on about his job at the ministry. Narcissa got a slight kick out of his complaints of Macnairs incompetence, however, that was the full extent of the empathy she felt for Lucius.

For a long season, she had found herself unable to emotionally connect with him. With each mention of their son, the veil of his pretension briefly slid away, but he inanely pulled back, widening the rift between them to an unsalvageable distance.


	6. Chapter 5: Rejoicing in Truth

A thick blackness baptised the landscape in its surroundings. The lake was as obsidian as the darkest night, and the castle was shrouded in darkness.

Similarly, the trees were dipped in ink and the sky was ash.  
Only the moon and the stars, stark and bright as spring, stood as guardians of the light.

A man, cloaked in black to match the landscape, jaunted down the stone steps in the direction of the greenhouses.  
He snarled. Ever since Severus' unexpected return to Hogwarts, his colleagues hatred of him had increased to unbearable levels.

Thus he resorted to collecting potions ingredients in the dead of night. Not that he minded too much; Hogwarts was much more pleasant during nightfall.

Without delay he arrived at the greenhouses.  
And checked for any wards or traps; he wouldn't put it past old Sprout to leave a dangerous plant in store just for him. The Hufflepuffs grudges' had proven to be near fatal.

Although the little jokes and pranks they came up with to agonize him had begun to be unbelievably vexing, he couldn't bring himself to care, when his own personal tormenter now resided at Hogwarts.

Markedly, having to consume meals alongside Lily's murderer each and every day was torture; most especially when the hope he would eventually be eradicated was fading rapidly.

After the Dark Lord's victory at the Battle of Hogwarts, he had returned to Hogwarts as headmaster as a final embarrassment to Dumbledore.

Therefore Severus now taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he personally found to incredibly ironic, since the most notorious practicer of the Dark Arts was now Hogwarts chief commander.

It was true anguish; his shared time with the monster only increased the vivacity of his nightmares.

The ghosts that haunted him seemed to have tripled, so many of the departed that he had failed.

No monument or statue of remembrance had been erected for them, Nevertheless, for Severus there was no need for he would never forget their names.

In the face of this tragedy, it was his great comfort that Lily's son still lived, in spite of Dumbledore's plans to have him sacrifice himself. Correspondingly, with Potter faraway and over the hills on the continent, he could delude himself it was not a pressing matter and forthwith not worth much contemplation.

Conversely, his thoughts strayed to Lily nearly as frequent as he drew breath. Notwithstanding his part in her death, his share in the creation of Hogwarts as it was in the present was his worst failure to her as of yet; an esteemed professor was he, at a school that would not teach her kind.

The school had long ceased to be a sanctuary of wonder, curiosity and learning and had become a prison of hatred and fear.

Furthermore his childhood memories of her were now tainted with the sentiment that no Muggleborn could experience the excitement and freedom which magic could offer them, for society now rejected them at birth.

The very notion had him fuming, and made it difficult to be insulted by Sprout or McGonagall, or anyone else for that matter. For he understood their emotions completely.

Both drenched in the stench of Death, his true antagonizers were the Dark Lord and Lily.

Each of them reminders of his wrongdoings and his failings. He loved Lily to a fault, and on more than one occasion, he wished he could waste away in the memories he had of her, and leave the rest of the world to rot in the mess they had created.

But alas, it was not to be. His oath to her bound him to the earth, and to the thrice-damned world that the wizards had created for themselves. Lonesome as an island, he stood amidst all the carnage, the sole capable general left to lead the army.

Be that as it may, on most nights, the thought of Lily gave him enough courage to face Voldemort in the morning.

Truly, only the memory of her was a guiding beacon.

To say nothing of the sour necessity of that encouragement. Surrounded by fools as he had always had been, he needed an endless well of patience to handle them. Lest he was to take a wrong step and set off sure disaster.

Without question, he had taken great steps concerning his temper in the last few years. Regardless, it now had to bear a worser strain than ever.

Love was patient and kind, or at least so Severus had been told.

However, that said nothing of the sacrifice and endurance it required during certain times. Especially when loving in itself could be so unrewarding.

It goes without saying that to love at all was on occasion a daunting task. Most individuals, he knew, had trouble accepting their own flaws, and were completely unbearable when it came to tolerating the mistakes of others.

Equally, when the final hour came, people tended to blame all of their own wrong-doings on others, leading themselves to ruin in the process.

Severus had truly tried his hardest to love, nonetheless, he was much like the others around him. Both too aware and too blind to his own flaws, he had, for a very long time, been unable to love anyone. With his uncontrollable flaring temper he pushed everyone away.

And egads, he had found himself all alone with his regrets at the end of the war; alive yet dead inside, haunted by countless ghosts. Thereupon, he had let Macnair convince him to lead his own resistance against the Dark Lord, be the head of his own order.

To the extent of his ability, he would live more honestly; he wanted the Dark Lord to perish, and he wanted to distinguish himself as such. Within reason as goes without needing to be said.

In spite of his own failure to forgive himself, he secretly hoped, that if Lily was alive, she would at least tolerate him in all his shortcomings and imperfections.

With slight irritation, he remembered his quarrel with Macnair, as he waited for the latter to show himself. Comparatively to most lowly peons, Macnair had very few redeeming qualities.

In a similar fashion to the Dark Lord, Severus kept Macnair around for a few pathetic reasons; his position, his status (as abysmal as it was) and his candor.

His solitary personal appeal that had naught to do with his birthright; Macnair spoke his mind. Be that as it may, Severus felt that irrevocable frankness suited people who had been similarly equipped with insight best.

Regrettably, this was not the case with Macnair, whom managed to aggravate nearly all of his other agents.

His current victim being Severus himself. Even in his dullest hour, he couldn't phantom where Macnair got the nerve to be a full hour late to an appointment; they were fighting a war for Christ sake! Fruitlessly, he recalled the first time he had pulled this stunt. Severus had worried himself into a frenzy; when the hour came to report to Narcissa, he'd been near delirious with rage.

Even so, he'd gotten accustomed to it. Arriving at the agreed time to a meeting with Macnair was virtually pointless, yet he held on to hope.

When he apparated a mere twenty minutes dilatory, Severus thanked the heavens and made his way over to him posthaste.

An appropriate response to Macnair's delinquent sensibility was a mystery to the Universe itself.

Forthwith, Severus no longer concerned himself with such affairs. With no restraint, he snatched Macnair's arm and apparated.

Thereafter, he detached himself from the other man, and dawdled over to a corner in the room of which ever safe house they'd been ordered to.

Dejectedly, he snarled at Macnair. 'You've got news, don't you? Speak!'

Unsurprisingly, Macnair took unkindly to the rough handling of his person. 'Merlin's Balls, Snape! Give a man a moment to compose himself.'

Through gritted teeth, Severus spoke to him while his eyes glittered with ire.

'Perhaps, if you bothered to arrive within ten minutes of the allotted time, I would treat you with more dignity. Alas, it is not so. Now, talk of your meeting with Narcissa.'

For his troubles, Severus was rewarded with a sneer which held equal venom to his. Slightly underlining his rancor, he answered slowly. 'The mission was a success. She managed to recover the file.'

With careless indifference, he tossed the document to Severus' feet. Then, in an uncharacteristic humble act, he cast his eyes downwards. In the innermost of his instincts, Severus felt trouble brewing. 'Sadly, I also am the bearer of bad news..'

A single, irrational moment, Severus feared a bad fortune might have befallen Narcissa. Regardless, he knew better, and the truth was out in a mere moment.

'Lucius tires of me. As you well know, I was originally intended to serve alongside the Muggle on the Council. However, he now seeks a replacement..' Severus was pleased Macnair at least had the dignity to look humiliated.

His brief shred of consideration, nonetheless, was not enough to mend the operation which was perilously close to becoming a catastrophe. Reigning in his temper, Severus prayed for more patience.

'In spite of this, Narcissa has already thought of a possible solution to place one of our agents, but we must act quickly.' A dim flicker of hope dared to flare in Severus mind, and he wished again for more patience.

'Approve the Muggle and tell Narcissa to make the necessary arrangements. This mission is vital to receiving the intelligence we need. If we fail, there will be hardly anything else to do to aid the war effort.' With exasperation, Severus sighed and rubbed his face.

All of the emissaries in their resistance were turncoats, who'd changed sides and ideals that they had found to be misguided. From the inauguration of their organisation, it had dawned that this aspect of their workings was essential to their effectiveness as an organisation. A common goal which was held in a shared morality.

Forthwith, it was important to uphold these standards, for Voldemort had already poisoned their loyalty to him with fear and resentment. They had to differentiate from him in order to show themselves and the world that they were capable of good.

Therefore, the decision to force the Muggle into the position made him sick, However, he saw to other path to choose.

While Severus pondered over the ramifications, Macnair stayed silent with a shameful face.

'Which agent can Narcissa manage to place?'

Macnair shuffled. 'She mentioned Delilah Zabini had expressed her 'cousin's' capabilities to him at a Ministry party. Narcissa had told him about a luncheon she'd had with Mrs. Zabini, and he jumped on the opportunity to get acquainted with the family more intimately. If all proceeds well, Mr. Thomas will likely be chosen in my place.'

Control was the key to a successful scheme, or so had a younger Lucius Malfoy told him a great many years ago. For the loss of it, Severus disliked the turn of events. While he had faith in the skill of Mr. Thomas, it was the uncertainty involved that made him anxious.


	7. Chapter 6: In want

The beautified reflection of himself upon which he gazed as he scrutinized himself in the mirror, was entirely disagreeable with him. Hardly a few months ago, he'd have scowled at any passerby who would have donned the pompous attire he was dressed in now. When he had been a bit younger still, he might have thrown a hex. An innocent one, yet a provocation nonetheless.

Frankly, the suit practically blared 'pretentious nob' to all with the gift of sight. Particularly, the deep green embellishments offended him. School was far in the past, be that as it may, he had never quite stopped associating the shade with snobbism. During his time especially, the Slytherins had strutted about the corridors with the composure of royalty, the rest of the student body denominated to plebeians. Even the notion of a vague association with such an ethos nauseated him.

Notwithstanding this surprisingly weighty feeling, he would turn into a man he hated, in name and body. In spite of his pronounced frustration, he felt there were few prices too high to pay when it came to Voldemort's death.

With slight exasperation, he practised the 'wittyer than thou' expression Blaise had so kindly shown him many times.

The residential vixen had chosen this moment to creep in.

'All preparted, Abe?' She smiled impishly, and trailed her ring finger across his shoulder. Despite of his long term lodgment at her estate, he still had trouble making heads or tails of her behavior. While she was absent from the house in the majority of the time he had spent there, she'd not at all treated him appropriately when they did see each other. Amusingly, this fact vexed Blaise greatly.

Mrs. Zabini, the famed widow of seven husbands, tactlessly teased him at all presented opportunities. As much joy as Blaises' anger brought him, with a degree of bitterness Dean realized he would not have received such treatment from his companions mothers, nor had it brought the deep discomfort that came with it.

'Yes. Let's greet our guests.' Eager to be rid of her, Dean left the room at a respectable pace; in the company of Slytherins, every move made, every word spoken mattered; it could all be perceived as a weakness. Such as it was, he had to thread carefully.

Fighting the strong kick of self-loathing, Dean composed himself in the parlour; his instructions had been clear as day. To impress the Minister was crucial, though not quite too much, should he feel threatened. Naturally, he was to be in impeccable appearance, however, additionally, not superiorly handsome to the minister. To say nothing of cunning, by far the most important trait, yet still, there was to be no upstaging the minister. Positively maddening.

By far, the worst aspect of it being having to kiss up to Lucius Malfoy.

According to the directive, the nature of his position the house was to be one authority as the oldest male in the house; the pure-blood hardliners observed the primeval customs. Therefore, as the youngest male, Blaise was to welcome the guests, after which he would offer them tea. Greeting was an unusually daunting task; a particular order was to be maintained.

All motions had been carefully trained and repeated beforehand, given Dean's staggering lack of experience with etiquette. Truthfully, it was all rather sluggish; the interactions were all purely a formality and lacked any sincerity.

Thus it was at the dinner table the undeniable challenge began; landing a job. No, shaking Lucius Malfoy's hand and kissing his wife's was not such an undertaking.

In the eye of a cynic, the situation might have been viewed as comical; all the participants involved in the ordeal knew the reason for the event; yet were forced by idiotic social traditions to tiptoe around it.

Lucius flashed him a look that was meant to read as 'scrutiny'. 'Your aunt did me the kindness of being acquainted with your recent activities. From what I gather, you are somewhat familiar with the continent?'

A veiled insult, meant to diminish status. To both his and Lucius knowledge, 'Absalom Zabini' had spent two years of his relatively short life in France, Thus, 'somewhat' was by all understanding a gross distortion of reality. With the goal of embarrassing him, needless to say.

In the briefing, it had been made abundantly clear, that he was not to lose face under any circumstance. Regardless of the looming threat of failure, Dean knew disdain was always a suitable course of action when communicating with Slytherins.

'Well, if one considers familiarity with the continent desirable'. He scowled. 'For all their charm, the French run their ministry with all the grace of trained primates. Regrettably, it's overrun with Blood-traitors and other filth.'Explicitly, he consciously announciated all of his words with venom. Noticeably, the strength of hatred had its effect on the present company; it hummed through them, as a single drop could ripple clear water.

Clearly a seasoned politician, Lucius recovered and laughed bitterly. 'Happy to be home then, I presume?'

On a hunch, Dean decided to exude a bit of jovalility. 'You presume correctly.' He smiled, though it was a cold smile, rather than a warm one. 'The Muggles here are precisely where they belong.' Exactly what position he was referring to, he decided to leave out.

By the grace of undeserved luck, the house-elves brought their food to the table at that moment. The conversation drifted to frivolous topics; Mrs. Malfoy and Mrs. Zabini had an in depth discussion on the latest fashions entirely without passion, giving Dean the opportunity to crack a mirthless joke on women's interests. Unsurprisingly, Lucius found his jest incredibly witty.

Unfortunately, this left space for to prod into 'Absalom Zabini's' love life, or lack thereof.

'Surely a lad such as yourself with a busy ministry career must be in need of a wife? Why, I couldn't phantom sleeping in a cold bed after a tiring day.' Half a second was spent glancing at his wife; though Dean could have sworn he detected resentment in the man's eyes.

'Well, my career isn't quite as busy as I would like it to be. Furthermore, what kind of a gentleman would I be to refuse my courteous aunt whom so kindly offers me her house?' In response, Mrs. Zabini smiled while Blaise sulked entirely without restraint.

Lucius arched his eyebrow and leaned back in his cathedra. ' Well, Mr. Zabini, as far as career opportunities are concerned, a pureblood heir such as yourself should know not to worry.' Inadvertently, this statement lead Dean to wonder whether he'd landed the job or not, or if they'd have to do this exhausting dance for a few more hours.

For no reason other than his own nerves, Dean noticed conversation had fallen silent at the other side of the table. Consequently, he felt as if he were a zebra surrounded by hyena's, all more than ready to pounce on him and devour him.

In spite of the relative success he had enjoyed so far, it would not do to throw all caution to the wind. As he raised his glass, a satisfied, conceited smile spread across his face. 'Such sentiments are ones I can toast to with full gratification, knowing they belong in a proper society.' The words, and the intentions behind them, tasted of ash.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Malfoy followed in suit. 'Hear, hear!' She saluted, while she held her glass in the air with her dainty fingers. A bit gobsmacked by the sway she evidently held over her husband, Dean was surprised to hear Lucius echo her sentiments.

Fortuitously, the entrance of a battalion of house-elves marked the end of dinner. Observing custom, desert was to be taken in a gender-segregated sitting room. In celebration of 'Absalom's' return from France, Tarte tatins were served with cream and espresso.

In Dean's observation, the lack of real companionship was evident, as Blaise and Lucius regarded each other apathetically. Although he'd never perceived Draco and Blaise as close at Hogwarts, he'd wager the mere reminder was a large part of Lucius discomfort.

As goes without saying, not mentioning Draco or a topic even vaguely related to him had been one of the larger parts of the preparation for the luncheon. The list of 'taboo subjects' had been astonishingly endless; when he'd questioned Mrs. Zabini on a few he believed had nothing whatsoever to do with Draco's death, she'd told him certain affairs were simply distasteful to discuss. No further questions had been asked.

'The stained windows are magnificent.' Dean said as an attempt to break the indisputable tension. 'I've never cared to notice before.'

Blaise sighed audibly. 'Mother inherited this edifice from her fourth husband, Barrett Heffernan. Seemingly, it was built by his great great grandfather in 1861. The stained windows were crafted in Marseille by wizard who expelled in love charms, as Mother enjoys to implicate.'

On command, Dean pretended to study them, and guffawed. 'No wonder she seems to be in her element in this dwelling.'

Of course, this remark managed to draw Lucius' attention. Correspondingly, he roared with laughter. 'Oh Merlin. Even you are not out of bounds then?'

Consequently, Blaise had a look on his face that told he'd like to throw himself out of the very windows they'd discussed a moment ago, whereas Dean smiled bitterly.

'No man with a dime to his name is out of bounds..' Came the dry counter uttered by Dean.

'Well..' Lucius continued to giggle. 'I'd advise you to lock your doors during nighttime.'

Dean held up his glass to see the light from the stained windows dancing on his scotch. Attempting to seem unconcerned, he moved his glass in a circular motion. The lights glittered along.

'Or hers, for the sake of every male being in the house..' He replied sourly.

From right side, Lucius broke out in a cacophony of laughter as Blaise from his left simultaneously rose out of chair. He had the audacity the shoot Dean a distinctively foul look, nevertheless, carried on as if he had not been insulted. Seemingly unbothered, Dean raised a single eyebrow in provocation.

'If you'll pardon me, I'll go inquire if Mrs. Malfoy is ready to leave.'

Without giving them a single sign he found them worthy of respect, he stormed out of the room.

After the door fell shut, Lucius turned his attention back to Dean. 'He didn't appear to be quite taken with your quip.'

Briefly, Dean felt disgusted with himself. It was incontestable that he and Blaise had never enjoyed each other's company, not at Hogwarts, and certainly not at the present. Be that as it may, Dean didn't hate him, nor was it his desire to make Blaise's life harder than it had to be. Regardless, as was to be expected, political interest trumped a sense of human decency in every single case.

'The truth hurts, as they say.' Dean uttered.


End file.
